


Dreams on Fire

by hannahindie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dean Winchester - Freeform, F/M, Psychic, Reader Insert, Sam Winchester - Freeform, Supernatural - Freeform, spn fanfic, supernatural fanfiction - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 17:51:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17084939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hannahindie/pseuds/hannahindie





	Dreams on Fire

_Orange and red flames. Black smoke, swirling in choking tendrils. Unbelievable heat caressing my skin. Stinging eyes, burning and blurry._

_I know he’s here. He’s always here, and I always arrive thirty seconds too late. Maybe this time will be different._

_A long form, lean legs and strong arms melting into the floor. Chestnut hair, burnt ends curling gently around the smooth shell of his ear._

_I’m too late. I can’t leave, regardless of the options. I lay beside him and pull him close. I close my eyes and, just like always, the two of us go up in smoke._

I jerk awake and feel the sweat running down my back, cooling quickly in the chill November air. For the third night in a row, I have watched him die. Usually, the dreams change; he’s in a car, passenger seat with the window down, glimpses of what looks like a fortress, a blue eyed man that constantly looks concerned, and a broken hearted one with eyes the color of moss in a sun dappled meadow. Until recently, when the same nightmare began plaguing me over and over again.

I swing my legs over the edge of the bed as I drag a shaky hand over my face, palming my sweat damp hair out of my eyes. I blindly reach out for the bottle I keep next to my bed only to find it empty and useless.

_Of course._

I stumble from my bed to the kitchenette, and groan as the bright light from the fridge hits my eyes. Empty. I go through the cabinets to find the same nothingness staring back at me. I start to wonder how long I’ve been on my liquid diet, then realize I probably didn’t want to know judging by the amount of bottles strewn around my studio apartment.

I shrug on my jacket and grab my keys; it’s time for a milk run.

* * *

The high-pitched whine of the liquor store’s fluorescents makes me cringe as the one above me flickers. The light has been like this for weeks, and I keep waiting for the sudden pop of it giving up the ghost. My eyes roam over the selection in front of me before I finally settle on one of the cheaper bottles of whiskey; no need to break the bank since I’m not looking to savor it anyway. The moment my fingers curl around the smooth bottle, the label contrasting roughly with the glass, a blinding pain shoots through my eye sockets. The whiskey hits the floor with a deafening crash, but I barely register it. I press my palms against my temples in an attempt keep my skull together, and suddenly the world is nothing but orange and red.

_My skin is on fire, and I can’t do anything but scream, my eyes squeezed shut. I choke on acrid smoke as it burns my esophagus and fills my lungs, and when I’m finally able to open my eyes, I see him. He’s facing away from me, struggling to open a door as the flames surround him. He turns to face me, but he doesn’t see me. He is scared, burning. He falls to the floor, and I’m by his side. I wrap myself around him, my fingers comb through his singed locks. He looks at me, but he’s looking through me, his hazel eyes glassy and terrified. The flames swallow his pupils. I’m too late._

I gasp, the crackling of the fluorescent, annoying before, now comforting after the roar of flames.

The cashier is looking at me, an eyebrow raised, “You alright?”

I uncurl myself and shake out my cramping arms, “I don’t know, Zack, do I _look_ okay?” I glance down at the floor, jagged shards of glass swimming in cheap liquor, glittering like some kind of alcoholic’s version of _Starry Night_. “Sorry.” I grab two more bottles off the shelf and step over Lake Kentucky Bourbon. I slam the bottles down on the counter and Zack lazily scans each bottle. “Go ahead and scan that again, I’ll pay for the broken one.”

He purposely lays the scanner down and bags the two surviving bottles, “Don’t worry about it. No one drinks that kind anyway, it’s basically rubbing alcohol.” I throw a wad of cash on the counter, grab the bag, and leave without thanking him. He’s used to it.

This is a first. The dreams are an every night thing, but this is the first time I’ve ever experienced one while I was awake. It’s become apparent that whatever it is I’ve been trying to run from, whatever thing has burrowed into my mind for most of my adult life, is trying to tell me something. And all of it has to do with the shaggy haired giant with the sad eyes.

I make it upstairs and pull one of the bottles out of the crumpled paper bag it was so carefully concealed in, then slide the window up and climb out onto the fire escape. It’s too early to try to find the bottom of this bottle…or maybe it’s just late enough. Time hasn’t meant much to me for awhile. I crack the seal and wince down a gulp of liquid fire.

“Little early for that, isn’t it?” I glance over and see my neighbor leaning out of his window, and I purposely take another swig, locking eyes with him as I do. “Mature, Y/N. Real mature.”

“I don’t recall asking you, Max.” I look down at the street, heads bobbing as they quickly walk to some unimportant destination, their eyes inevitably trained on the ground in an effort to avoid conversation. Same old, same old. I hear the creak of extra bodyweight as Max crawls out of his window and onto the fire escape next to me.

“You had another nightmare.” It isn’t a question, just a simply stated fact. I have lived next to Max for a long time, and despite my obvious attempts to push him away, for some reason he’s still around. Although exhausting, it’s also oddly comforting.

“Yea, but it’s entered a whole new level of suck. I had one while I was awake.” I take another deep gulp of whiskey, hoping that it’ll burn out whatever is inside me. There’s only one explanation for this, especially now that it’s leaking into real life, and it isn’t a pleasant one.

“You were awake?” Max’s question is quiet, almost not even a question rather than a repetition of disbelief.

“I didn’t stutter,” I grumble, immediately feeling a twinge of guilt. Max doesn’t deserve my shit, and yet here we are. I sigh, “Am I going crazy, Max? Is that what this is?”

He shrugs, “You’ve _been_ crazy. Maybe it’s all that turpentine whiskey you drink. It’s rotting away your brain.” I flip him off and sit the bottle down with a dull clink as glass meets metal.

“Was it the same nightmare?”

I nod. There are some differences, but in the end it doesn’t matter. The result is the same, and I still don’t even know his name.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m going to try to find him. I mean, I guess I could just let it go, and he’ll eventually die, and then maybe this will stop. But what if it doesn’t? What if the dreams go away and I just have to live with _this_ horror show for the rest of my life? I can’t do it.” I grab the bottle and stand up, my hand on the window frame as I try to steady myself.

“How are you going to do that? Do you even know his name?” His voice is steady, but his eyes look heavy, the only thing holding up his concerned eyebrows being his thick eyelashes. Max is a handsome man, and I often wonder why he wastes his time with me.

“Nope,” I say as I straddle the window, one leg still outside, the other barely holding my weight as I slip back into the apartment, “but I’ve got other ways. Don’t worry about me, Max. I’ll be alright.” I trip over the window ledge and fall into the apartment, not giving him a chance to answer as I slam the worn window shut. It’s better this way; if I don’t come back, and I wager I probably won’t, there isn’t any burning confessions he can cling to until I reappear, healed and healthy, and not out of my mind.

I grab a bag and shove clothes, toiletries, and various other necessities into it. I pause at my desk and slowly slide open the top drawer. There it is; the only thing that will even remotely help me piece this together. If I have any hope of finding the man haunting even my waking moments, it’ll be in this journal. I grab it and stow it carefully in my purse. Time to go. 

* * *

_Hazel eyes, wide and sparkling, deep dimples forming as his smile widens. His hair is longer now, his face older, but it’s still him. He looks tired, and a little sad, but whoever the green eyed man is makes him laugh, and a beautiful woman with short cropped hair pats him on his arm. I feel a restless kind of jealousy at that innocent gesture, the intimacy of which I will likely never experience. At least not with him. It’s a happy scene, a rare one for this hauntingly beautiful man._

_His smile starts to fade; his eyes change from hazel to yellow, and then suddenly he is consumed by fire. The man and woman seem unfazed as he screams silently, clawing at his arms, then his face, in an effort to put it out. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t move, I can only watch as he collapses into the floor, melting into it as he ceases to exist._

My eyes snap open, and at first I can’t remember where I am, except that I’m surrounded by darkness and dim, flickering lights. I pull my jacket closer, the leather backseat of my car taking on a chill that I should be accustomed to by now. I look down at the book I’m still clinging to, the binding broken and frayed from how often I open and close it.

The rest stop light makes the pages of my journal look yellow as I flip through them yet again, my fingers tracing over the swirls and crosshatches and shadows, recreations of my addled visions over the years. His face has followed me since I was twenty-two years old, always silent, but ever present. It’s like watching a silent movie; I can see how his lips curl up slowly when he’s trying not to laugh, the dimples that form when he allows himself to actually smile, but I can never hear the sound of his voice. I imagine his voice is deep, his laugh like the low, wooden wind chimes my grandmother used to have.

The first time I saw him, he was young, around my age, both soft and sharp at the same time. The dreams came every night at first, and each one was a different scenario. He wasn’t always happy; I remember seeing something else burn, but that was soon replaced by visions of a shiny black car with a roaring engine, and a cocky green eyed man who seemed to be everywhere. The dreams…visions…whatever they were, would come in waves then recede like a tide, leaving me alone and wandering. Those nights, yellow eyes filled my mind, always searching for me, angry and violent. The eyes terrified me, but he… _he_ was comforting.

I turn the page, my fingers resting gently on the most recent sketch. I’ve always known he was okay, because he ages along with me. I’ve seen him hurt, angry, devastated, happy…but he is always okay. I’ve come to look forward to seeing him; he’s been the only constant in my life for a very long time. These nightmares are a warning: How do I save someone when I don’t even know their name?

I’ve made a decision. I’ve never tried using my…gift…to find him, it always just happens while I’m asleep. But since it has decided to start invading my mind, even when I’m awake, maybe I can use it to find him. I flatten my palm against the last sketch in the book and close my eyes. I focus on him, I think about his broad shoulders and how his hair curls gently around the collar of his shirt. I imagine his hazel eyes and the way he chews on his lip while he thinks. I reach out, and I can almost feel something expand from me. Pain explodes from behind my eyeballs, but I force myself to keep my hand on the picture.

_A hotel sign. Whispering Pines Motel and Lounge. A bronze 13. The house, a two story brick with a wrap around porch. A mailbox with the familiar black car as it pulls up to it. 1124. Two well dressed men walking up the sidewalk, pausing at the porch, the taller of the two listening intently to the shorter one before they knock on the door. A jukebox. A flickering neon sign. Hank’s Bar and Grill. Empty beer bottles and a pine tree shaped keyfob._

I gasp, deep and painful, and the vision is gone. It’s not an address, but it will do. I wipe the blood dripping from my nose, which is new and different than my visions from before, and climb into the front seat.  

* * *

There are more Whispering Pines Motel and Lounges than one would think. Luckily, only one place also has a Hank’s Bar and Grill, not to mention personalized pine tree keyfobs for their motel. It didn’t take much more searching before I was able to find the brick two story at 1124 Maple Street, Livermore Falls, Maine. After debating on whether I should go to the motel to warn him or go straight to the house, I decide to go to the house. He doesn’t know me, and how do I explain to him how I know what’s going to happen? _“Oh, sorry to bother you, but I’ve had dreams about you for, like, thirteen years now. It’s not really seemed that important, except I’ve seen you die several times now, and I thought I should maybe warn you.”_ Yea, no. But if I go to the house, then maybe I can stop it.

It’s a long drive to Maine, and I’ve already wasted too much time researching. I drive through the night, trying to ignore the pull of the whiskey bottle nestled in my bag, and instead opt to mainline coffee. When I finally make it to the house, it’s dark. It doesn’t appear that anyone is home, and I begin to wonder if I should have gone to the motel first. I fiddle with my keys as I fight with myself; stay here and wait, or go there and risk being completely wrong.

My decision is made for me when the black muscle car pulls up to the mailbox and two men climb out. They aren’t wearing suits this time, but it’s them. It’s _him_. I watch as they circle the house and disappear into the dark back yard. My keys are in my pocket and my car door is open before I realize what I’m doing. My boots hit the ground, and despite my fear of why they’re creeping around a house this late at night, I quietly follow after them. By the time I get to the backyard, they are gone. I notice that the back door is ajar and, despite my better judgement, I find my hand pushing against the rough wood so I can slip inside.

The house is dark, but I know where I need to go. I carefully climb the stairs and head to the bedroom from my dreams. Just as I reach it, I hear a shout, then a crash. I run into the room to see a figure staring down at the shaggy haired giant, and when he looks at me, his eyes glow yellow.

_Asmodeus._

I cringe as his voice echoes through my mind, an icepick driven through my brain, and before I can move, he snaps his fingers. The door slams shut behind me and flames begin to lick along the curtains, blocking any escape through the window.

_You finally listened, Y/N. You finally came._

I press my palms to my ears, knowing that it isn’t going to block out his voice, but trying anyway.

_You are the last one, child. The only one that still embraces the powers my foolish brother gave you. Generally speakin’, I think his ideas were absurd and pointless, but now…seeing you…I could use you. Oh, I could use you._

“What…do you…want?” I ask through gritted teeth, my eyes locked on the still form on the floor.

_I want you…to finish him. I can make this torture go away, my dear, but I need you to use your powers to end him. You used your powers to find him, didn’t you? Use them now._

I look at the man that I have seen grow up, and how vulnerable and innocent and tired he looks. My eyes shift back to Asmodeus and I can feel it; the same power I felt when I was trying to find the mysterious man bubbling outward, far more powerful than before. I steady my stance, “I will not.” Laughter, piercing and sharp, echoes. It is taking over every part of me, and I want nothing more than to scream.

_You will. You will or more people will die. That blood will be on your hands, will it not? You will have to live with that. So the question you need to ask yourself is if you can handle that._

“I’ll take my chances.” I take a deep breath, then throw my hand out. The blast that comes from me pushes me backwards, and my boots scrape along the hardwood floor. It hits Asmodeus full in the face, and he screams. It’s deep and guttural, and I can feel blood dripping from my ears, but I don’t stop. I will not stop until this man is safe and whoever Asmodeus is is gone.

Suddenly, Asmodeus is gone. I’m not sure where he went, but I’m pretty sure I just succeeded in pissing him off more than I hurt him. I drop to my knees next to the man I had been dreaming of for so long. He’s more beautiful than my dreams have ever conveyed. I can see the worry lines in his forehead, the scattered gray hairs in his soft, chestnut hair. There’s a deep bruise already forming along his jaw and around his eye. I reach out to him, my hand hovering above his hair. I’m afraid to touch him.

I realize that this is the scene from my nightmare, and that it never really mattered if I came to save the day or not. We were both meant to end up in the room and never leave it. I lay down next to him and curl myself around him. I put a hand on his cheek, feel the roughness of stubble, and smile to myself. I can feel the goodness, but I can also feel the kind of darkness that I try to hide every day. It makes me wonder what his secret is, but this isn’t a time for that. The smoke is getting thick, and it’s getting harder to breathe. My eyes are trying to shut, but all I want is to look at him, to memorize every line and scar.

“I’m sorry. I thought I could save you. I guess it wasn’t about that. It was just about not dying alone.” I rest my head on his shoulder and I wonder what it would feel like for him to hold me. Doesn’t really matter now.

I hear a loud banging coming from the bedroom door. Strange, since we’re the only ones here. Another crash and mumbled cursing. I look up and I can see the knob shaking, but not giving in.

“Sam! Are you in there? What’s going on? SAM!”

I look at him, my eyes wide. His name is Sam. _His name is Sam_. For whatever reason, it gives me an extra boost. I send one more wave out, concentrating on the door opening, and it explodes, wood shards flying everywhere. The green eyed man that is always with Sam runs in, his eyes wide when he sees me.

“What the hell?” He looks confused, which is fair, but he doesn’t have time for that. I can’t tell if Sam is even breathing, and if this man isn’t careful, he’ll be trapped in here, too.  

I want to answer, but I can’t. There’s too much smoke in my lungs, and I keep choking. Instead I roll away from him and wave at Green Eyes to help Sam. This part is different, and I feel a sense of relief when I realize I saved him. _I saved Sam._

I have not given much thought as to what would happen if I saved him. I haven’t given much thought to anything, lately. But as my eyes slip shut, I see Sam’s eyes open. They widen when they lock with mine, and I swear there’s a flash of recognition. I smile and take one more deep breath.

I changed the story. I find comfort in that, and I let the smoke take over. I’ve heard going this way is like falling asleep, and I can see it. Once you quit fighting it, it eases in, filling the gaps. It’s warm and inviting, and it occurs to me that this is an ending after all.

This is _my_ ending.


End file.
